Page 101 of Hometown Touchdown
“I’m not hiding,” I say, then pause. “Okay, maybe a little. But only from the Haddies of the world. And Debbie. Definitely Debbie.”
He chuckles, setting his empty plate on the coffee table before turning toward me, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch. “I get it. It’s a small town. People talk.”
“You’re being very understanding for someone who had to lie to his mom about a plumbing emergency to keep me hidden in the laundry room.”
“That was heroic,” he deadpans.
“Truly. Medal-worthy.”
He watches me for a moment, the teasing falling away just enough to let something quieter settle between us. “You know I don’t care if people know, right?”
I meet his gaze, heart stuttering just a little. “I know.”
“I’m not saying we make a public announcement,” he adds, tone easy but intentional. “Just that...I wouldn’t mind not pretending. I know what I feel is strong enough to battle the gossip mill.”
I nod, keeping my voice light. “Well, if we’re going to go public, we need to do it after Thanksgiving. You know how Haddie gets when she’s mixing family gossip with stuffing.”
Knox leans in, brushing a kiss against my temple, then my cheek, then lower, his lips trailing down my jaw until I forget what we were even talking about. His hand rests on my thigh, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles through the fabric of my leggings.
“You’re stalling,” he murmurs.
“I’m distracting,” I correct. “It’s different. Strategic.”
He smiles against my skin. “Works for me.”
We don’t talk much after that. There’s laughter and kissing and a little chocolate smudged on his neck that I’m definitely responsible for. And later, when we’re curled up under a throw blanket on his couch, half-watching some forgettable action movie, I rest my head on Knox’s shoulder and let the quiet settle around us like a soft, heavy quilt.
And that’s when it hits me—this tug in my chest that says maybe going public wouldn’t be the worst thing. Not because I want the attention or the validation or even the town-wide chaos Haddie would unleash. But because hiding this—us—makes it feel like it’s something to be ashamed of. And it isn’t. It’s steady and warm and kind. It’s second chances and soft touches and Knox looking at me like I’m still the girl he picked first, even when I didn’t pick myself.
I want to hold his hand at Gordy’s without dodging glances. I want to lean over his shoulder at the field and not feel like a walking secret. I want to stop shrinking the best thing in my life down to whispers and drive-bys.
But I’m also scared that once it’s out there, it won’t belong to just us anymore. It’ll become town property, something dissected over Facebook threads and covered-dish dinners. People will talk. Just like they did six years ago. I can justimagine a well-meaning ‘don’t break that boy’s heart again’ being flung my way.
Maybe the fear will always be there. Maybe the whispers will come. But if I’m going to take the risk, I want it to be for something real. Something worth defending.
And Knox Dalton is worth every bit of it.
Chapter fifty
Knox
Ifsomeonehadtoldme at the start of the season that we’d be standing on the edge of the playoffs, I would’ve laughed. Not a bitter laugh, just one of those dry, tired ones that you use when the idea sounds more like fiction than fact. But here we are—Friday night under the lights, the last game before Thanksgiving—and we actually have a shot. A real, honest chance to make it to the playoffs.
The early November air is the kind of cold that wakes you up, sharp and crisp and electric. The field is firm beneath my sneakers, and there’s a nervous energy skating just beneath thesurface. People in the stands know what’s at stake. Cedar Falls hasn’t been to the playoffs in nearly a decade. Tonight’s the night we might change that.
And for the first time all season, we’re not scrambling to make up for early mistakes. We come out of the gate strong. Confident. Sharp. The boys play like they believe in themselves—not in a cocky way, but with the kind of quiet certainty that comes from grinding through losses and long practices and film sessions that dragged late into the night. Every snap, every pass, every block—it’s clean. Solid. Unshakable.
By halftime, we’re up by ten. The other team is fighting, sure, but we’ve got control. And we’re not letting it go.
As I pace the sideline during a timeout, my eyes drift to the stands and catch on something that makes me pause. Brynn’s there, bundled in one of my old scarves, the deep navy blue one she “borrowed” and conveniently never returned. She’s seated between our parents, laughing at something my mom says, her cheeks pink from the cold and her eyes lit up in a way that cuts through the noise around me. It’s a strange feeling, watching her there, part of this world again, but not quite mine in the way I want everyone to know.
She looks down just then and catches me staring. Her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, and she lifts her coffee cup in a mock toast. I shake my head, biting back a grin, and shoot her a small salute in return. It’s nothing obvious.
My assistant, Coach Nelson, claps me on the back as the players reset. “They’re locked in. This one’s ours to lose.”
“Not tonight,” I say, still feeling the buzz of that quiet moment.
And they don’t lose it.
